


There's someone in my head (but it's not me)

by crimsonepitaph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Gen, Horror, Psychological Torture, Torture, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4700210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has been in the Cage a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's someone in my head (but it's not me)

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note #1: Beta-ed by **borgmama1of5**. Magic, she does. Otherwise, all my stories would be confused, unreadable messes. 
> 
> Author's Note #2: Title, lyrics from the Pink Floyd song, _Brain damage_.

Broken, useless, hopeless.  
  
Beautiful.  
  
He begs. Greets the nothing’s warm, familiar embrace.  
  
He cries tears that aren’t his.  
  
Darker, and darker, that’s all there is. It swallows him, it’s endless, and he screams, he pleads, he wants, he needs.  
  
The voice quiets him.  
  
He’s not a good boy.  
  
He’s not doing what he’s told.  
  
The voice tells him to stay quiet. He does. There’s nothing else to do.  
  
His moans reverberate around his skull, and he tries, he tries really hard to stay silent, but his own heartbeat deafens him  _thumpthumpthump_  in his ear, and he’s torn apart, he shatters into a million pieces because the voice has hands, soft, long fingers, and it touches, it touches him.  
  
He breaks.  
  
He screams.  
  
Metal screeches on metal.  
  
The voice laughs. It likes his noise. It breathes in his words, words that aren’t known to man, just sounds, because that’s all he is. He’s turned from the inside out, and he isn’t, he can’t scream. He is quiet.  
  
The voice soothes him.  
  
Tears scatter into nothingness.  
  
Drip. Drip. Drip.  
  
He begs.  
  
He stares at the voice. He blinks.  
  
And it doesn’t matter anymore, because it tells him all that he is.  
  
  


~

 

The room doesn’t have walls. But it does. They’re dripping, melting, they stick to bones and slither along the skulls, and it’s beautiful, it’s colors of the outside, sky blue and off-white, and they mingle, it’s not –  
  
Sky, Earth, Nothing.  
  
He is blinded. He sees what he wants to see. Flawed. Fallible. Wrong.  
  
He is.  
  
That’s his only fault. He can’t not be, he can’t not think, he can’t not see.  
  
He’s not supposed to  _be_.  
  
Here. At all.  
  
Shelves. Hourglasses. Sand. Fluid. Grains, small, crystalline, lost.  
  
Names.  
  
Dean. Always Dean.  
  
  
  


~

 

Dripping. Sound. The sand. He can’t –  
  
He watches as everyone lives, dies, rots before his eyes.  
  
Laughter.  
  
The hourglass is him. The hourglass turns. Again. He lives.   
  
  


~

 

He dreams.  
  
He escapes.  
  
A road, black. Stripes, white. Sign, red.  
  
A man.  
  
A silhouette, lost in all the other things that don’t matter.  
  
The road is his home, the road that leads to nowhere because all that ever mattered was always next to him. In his bones, the foundation of all he is.  
  
The sun glares off black metal.  
  
He smiles.  
  
The man asks.  
  
Sam doesn’t answer.  
  
His mind doesn’t know the answers.  
  
 _Sammy._  
  
The fragment is ripped from him.  
  
There’s so little time.  
  
So little heaven in the hell that he is.  
  
  
  


~

 

“It’s not going to break me. It isn’t. Do it. Again. And again. I can take it.”  
  
 _I want to_ , he thinks.  
  
It laughs.  
  
He laughs.  
  
  
  


~

 

Blood slithers down his wrists. Red, white. So dark. Darker than he expected. Why? He’s seen it so many times.  
  
His hands are covered, red art on a skin canvas, and he breathes, and there’s so many things.  
  
So many –  
  
There isn’t reality. There’s –  
  
Just him.  
  
But he doesn’t exist. Floating. Mirrors.  
  
He sees himself.  
  
Weightless thoughts. He isn’t whole. He isn’t imperfect. Not now. The blood, the beginning, it’s just a piece.  
  
It’s gone. And still. He doesn’t care. Not after all this.  
  
He breathes crimson.  
  
The clock doesn’t stop. It goes backwards. The glass is cracked. Maybe he’s never been there to begin with.  
  
There’s a stain on the pulsating wall, red, angry, dirty.  
  
He stares until it becomes a memory.  
  
  


~

 

So much time.  
  
And there’s no ending.  
  
Strange, frail being that he is. But days – days are too long, minutes too overwhelming, hours smother him, and he curls up in a corner, and he stands straight, and he’s left in pieces, wondering which is the real him.  
  
Because there are no days, no minutes, no hours to count. It’s the same moment, falling, endless, suspended. The pain is comforting.  
  
He thinks of the end.  
  
Dean. That name is his only touchpoint.  
  
It shouldn’t be.  
  
Dean shouldn’t care.  
  
  


~

  
  
  
Maybe he’s still a monster.  
  
He could be.  
  
He could be so many things.  
  
Flames tickle his toes, scorching upward, towards his ankle, burning bright, almost blue, and he stares – he’s fire, he’s ashes, he’s a man whose soul has burned for too long.  
  
And he asks the flames, the screaming voices in his head, the innocents – is that all there is?  
  
There is no peace.  
  
He remembers fragments of things that can’t be his.  
  
And the walls cave, crush him, scream at him, all the things he couldn’t do, and didn’t do, the walls bear witness as skin peels away inch by inch, and he’s alone, and the darkness – that’s the only real thing.  
  
  
  


~

 

Blood. He’s dying. He always is.  
  
And he lives.  
  
The clouds are boiling.  
  
It’s raining. It burns his skin. It crawls inside him. What is he? Why is he?  
  
He exists as the weight of his thoughts. The only way to live is to die like this.  
  
  
  


~

“Please.”  
  
“You said you wouldn’t break. You said you would live through this. So do it. Be more. Be something you can live with.”  
  
Sam stays silent.  
  
Oblivion beckons him.  
  
He cannot reach it. The hourglasses break. Glass shards in his hands, his face, everywhere.  
  
He shatters with the fragments. It's almost easier like this.  
  
  
  


~

 

It whispers, it lingers behind his ear, down the curve of his jaw, and the fingers press deeper, further, and he sinks into the pain, and he isn’t himself –  
  
The walls are clean. The clock is ticking. The voice tells him all the things he wants to hear.  
  
The voice is him.


End file.
